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PRICE, 50 CENTS. 




BY 



J. WILLIAM POPE. 



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PITTSBURGH: 
Published by A. A. Anderson & Son,. No. 99 Fifth Avenue. 

1876. 



COPY-RIGHTED 1877. 






1= :e E3 I^ .ii^ O E! . 



IT IS LOVE. 



To mj readers and friends I will prove 
It is love rules the world of mankind ; 

Though it may not be angelic love, 
It is love, none the less, you will find. 

It is love prompts the lowly to bear 

What the haughty and rich may decree ; 

It is love makes the homely seem fair, 
Makes the Jew^ and the gentile agree. 

It is love prompts the statesman to serve 
In our congress, promulgating laws ; 

It is love gives the patriot nerve 
To do battle in liberty's cause. 

It is love prompts the parson to plead. 
And to struggle our spirits to save . 

It is love tells the doctor to bleed, 
And the sexton to dig us a grave. 

It is love makes me now rack my brain 

Till my judgment would fly through the rents; 

It is love, yes, strong love, I maintain. 
With us all, love of dollars and cents. 



Songs and Satires. 



WHAT IS LIFE? 



What is life ? a garden growing, 
Full of flowers brightly blowing, 
Where the butterfly is showing 

Painted wings beneath the sun ; 
Where the humbird joys in drinking. 
Where a maid is pensive thinking, 
As together she is linking 

Buds and blossoms for her love. 
Where the birds are blithely singing 
Where the dew like gems is clinging. 
And were zephyrs softly winging 

Scatter perfumes on the air; 
Where a stream is ever gliding, 
On whose breast is calmly gliding 
Life's light bark, and frequent hiding 

'Neath the over-hanging trees; 
Life to some is ever teeming 
With the bliss of -which they're dreaming, 
While to others only seeming. 

Though it passeth joyfully. 

What is life? a garden dying. 
Where are withered petals lying. 
Where no butterfly is flying, 

For the sun is sinking low. 
Where no humbird seeks for nectar, 
Where the maid beholds the spectre 
Of the love which should protect her 

Passing through the gloomy vale. 
Where the birds of prey are soaring. 
And where clouds are ever pouring 
Through the winds so fiercely roaring. 

Moaning doleful all the day. 



Songs and Satires, 



Where a stream, all thick with mire, 
Rises to its banks, and higher, 
'Neath whose waves each day expire 

Those who venture on its flood. 
Life for all is full of sighing, 
But for those on God relying. 
Though the mortal may he dying. 

There is life beyond the grave. 



TO BABY. 



Sleeping, my babe, in your little cold grave. 
And soon will you crumble to earth once again, 

'Twas God took your spirit, he took it to save 
You all life's trouble, its sorrow, its pain. 

Daisies will grow on your grave, in the spring. 
In them I will see you smile sweetly on me. 

Birds in the church-yard will gather and sing. 
My lost one, my dear one, a sweet lullaby. 

Sweet, 0, so sweet, is your memory still ; 

Your soft little voice gave this life all its charms, 
At night, in my dreams, like a murmuring rill, 

I hear its sweet prattle, my bosom it warms. 

Oh, how I long once again, as of old, 

To fold, to caress you, dear babe, to my heart ; 

Soon will this bosom be nulseless and cold, 

Then I'll meet you, my lost one, never to part. 



PRIDE AND POVERTY. 



Be poor if you must, but cast pride to the winds, 

The two in one house can't abide, 
Pride worries and frets at what poverty finds, 

Yet cannot a morsel provide. 



Songs and Satires. 



THE THORN 



In a tiny maiden's foot — 

Long ago, there ran a thorn ; 
At a lofty maple's root, 

Down she sat to weep forlorn : 
And it chanced I came that way — 

'Twas at setting of the sun — 
" What doth ail thee, lassie, pray ? — " 

She my sympathies had won — 
Then I saw her little foot, 

As she sat there all forlorn. 
At the lofty maple's root — 

Then she show'd the ugly thorn. 

Like a man, though but a boy, 

Knelt I at the maiden's feet, 
And she seemed so strange and coy — 

Still she looked so angel sweet. 
Soon I took the thorn away, 

With it came a stream of gore, 
" Thank thee, sir," I heard her say. 

Weeping as she'd wept before, 
Still down at the maiden's feet. 

Knelt I like a thoughtless boy 
Thinking, 0, she is so sweet, 

But she is so very coy. 

Then I took her little hand, 

" Oh I " she said, '' I cannot go 
For it pains me e'en to stand," 

What, thought I, am I to do. 
Then I took her in my arms. 

Bore her to her cottage door — 
There I left her, evermore ? 

No ! again I took her hand, 



Songs and Satires. 



First as lovers often do, 

Then, like those who loving stand, 
Who to Hymen's altar go. 



Now beside a grassy mound 

Kneel I, thinking of the past. 
And the tiny maid I found 

With her heart so overcast. 
And I feel her in my arms. 

And I see the cottage door, 
And I see her angel charms, 

Which on earth I'll see no more 
And I feel myself a boy. 

Kneeling, weeping, all forlorn, 
For that maiden young and coy. 

Having in my heart the thorn. 



LINES. 



Last night the devil came to me, 

As I sat lost in thinking : 
So dark his form I scarce could see 

Him, though my lamp was blinking. 
I must confess I felt afraid. 

Yet met him very civil, 
And in the blandest manner said, 

••' How are you, Mr. Devil? " 
To which he answered, " Very .well 

I hope you're feeling clever, 
I've come to take you down to — dwell 

With me, and leave me never." 
" Well, sit you down, and warm your feet. 

While I go tell my Polly." 
"No, no," said he, "she'll but defeat 

My plans, she will by golly. 
These women folks oft baffle me, 

And you poor mortal creatures 



Songs and Satires. 



Are all so blind you never see 

Beyond your nasal features, 
Would you believe that women would, 

If down in my dominion, 
Make devils think that bad was good, 

In spite of their opinion ?" 
Said I, '' My friend," — to touch his pride- 

" Have you no female spirit 
Down in the place where you abide, 

Or in some place quite near it ?" 
" Not one have I, 'tis very strange, 

'Tis said they're devils whining 
But ere they die, they always change 

To angels, bright and shining." 
Just then my Polly showed her face, 

All smiles, and so beseeching 
The devil moved aback apace 

From her bright eyes bewitching. 
She said, — when I had told her how 

We soon must part forever, — 
" We all should to our husbands bow 

But you shall leave me never ; 
Where e'er you go, I go along. 

If 'tis to shades of Hades ;" 
The devil said, " Madam, you're wrong. 

It is no place for ladies ;" 
"Well, well," she said, "before you go, 

I'll mix you both some toddy. 
To keep you warm, and down below 

There's warmth for soul and body." 
The devil smacked his lips and drank, 

I only tasted lightly ; 
Soon into slumber satan sank. 

Then Poll, and I went sprightly, 
Like a very lightning beam. 

To get some "Holy Water " 
When I awoke from out my dream, 

Which 'twaSj and nothing shorter. 



Songs and Satires. 



WHAT IS THE COST? 



Now what is the cost of a pleasent reply ? 

No matter to whom it may be. 
'Tis nothing I'm sure, but if people would try 

To give it, its profits they'd see. 
But what does it cost one to give a rebufi*? 

At first it may seem there is none : 
Yet years upon years, we may find not enough 

To undo what that answer has done. 



UNCLE SAM 



The sun never shone on palace or throne 

More grand than the freeman's plain cot, 
He's prouder than kings and joyously sings, 

And labors content with his lot, 
A hundred long years he's been free, 

Though threatened, he braved every storm, 
While trusting in God, still turning the sod, 

He laughs at the coming of harm. 

From over the sea he came to be free. 

His altars and vows to renew. 
He lighted a fire which now would require. 

The blood of the world to subdue. 
He peacefully sits 'neath his vine. 

And lends to the exile a hand, 
He wishes good cheer to all far and near, 

And welcomes all men to his land. 

No color or race he thinks a disgrace. 
Though ignorance pointeth with scorn. 

He honors the hand that tilleth the land. 
Producing the wine and the corn. 



Songs and Satires. 



All over the world he is known, 

His name to the humble is dear, 
In tempest or calm our "Old Uncle Sam," 

With kings of earth is the peer. 

Chorus. — Hurrah for the land of the free, 
God bless every hill-top and plain, 

Its daughters and sons, its swords and its guns. 
And let it in peace long remain. 



ROCKING THE BABY. 



A young mother sat with her babe on her arm, 
And sought in its face for the heavenly charm 
Which warms and illumines the innermost heart 
Of mothers, for babes form its tenderest part : 
And she sang, as she rocked her dear baby. 

She looked in the future and saw him a youth. 
Pursuing and reaching for knowledge and truth ; 
She saw him return from the college prepared 
To startle the world with the wisdom which glared 
Like Sol, from his brow, and his glory she shared, 
While she sang, rocking still her dear baby. 

She then saw him pleading for right at the bar ; 
She saw him, a soldier, return from the war ; 
She saw him a statesman, with honor and fame. 
And heard the vast multitude shouting his name. 
As down from the National Chambers he came ; 
And she sang, rocking still her dear baby. 

The babe fell asleep, and the mother slept, too ; 
She dreamed he was winged and suddenly flew 
Away to the land of bright fairies and charms, ■ 
Then woke with the corpse of her babe in her arms ; 
And she moaned, as she rocked her dead baby. 



Son^s and Satires. 



Within an asylum there's an old dame, 
With white, scanty locks and with weak shrunken frame ; 
As backward and forward she moves, thus she sings, 
" I'm glad that my child is not gifted with wings." 
She imagines she's rocking her baby. 



STRONG MINDED WOMEN 



The devil fell into the hands of some women ; 

They tangled him first in a skeleton skirt. 
They bound him with lacers, those strings which are common. 

And then 'round there victim did impishly flirt. 

He cursed and he swore, to affright his tormentors, 
Blew clouds all about them as black as the soot. 

But they, like true women, determined to conquer, 
Belabored his head with the heel of each boot. 

Oh, how he cried with the pain they inflicted ! 

With pins and with needles they pricked him severe; 
They gagged him with cotton — he never suspected 

Such weapons of torment — concealed and so near. 

They filled both his eyes with the pure lily white; 

With bright rouge and carmine they painted his face; 
With whalebones they switched him, he cried with affright, 

'• I'll give you a fashion you'll wear with much grace." 

" Agreed," cried the women, "We're always for changes. 
Now tell us what's new and we'll let you depart; 

New bonnets, new dresses, new shawls so derange us. 
There's left no more room for aught else in each heart." 

"Untie me, and then I will tell you with pleasure ; " 
They loosed him, and dusted the white from his eyes ; 

He rose up and looked round, they looked for their treasure, 
"Go naked," said he, as he rose mid their sighs. 



10 Songs and Satires. 



A BALLAD. 

Come listen to me while I sing 
Of what carousing's sure to bring 
To plowman and to haughty king, 

Or any other body. 
The night had been a night of dread, 
The storm fiend thundered overhead, 
As though he wished to rouse the dead, 

And then he ceased his roaring. 
Then through the woods I took my course- 
The owlet screaming loud and hoarse — 
And met upon a gaunt pale horse. 

The last remains of mortal. 
When first I saw it come in view, 
I felt upon my brow the dew 
Of death, for very well I knew 

'Twas he, or his relation. 
I cuddled down behind a tree 
Thus hoping that it might not see, 
But oh ! it turned its eyes on me. 

Or rather turned their sockets. 
But not a word or sound it gave ; 
I felt my brain begin to rave, 
And smelt the dampness of the grave 

Blow off its fleshless body. 
A freezing chill ran down my* spine. 
My hair — which does to curl incline — 
Stood out, as on the porcupine 

Do quills when he is fretted. 
" sir," I said — I was polite — 
" Spare me but for one other night, 
Then come and claim me as your right." 

But not a word of answer. 
But dumb it stood, like stock or stone, 
Between its ribs the starlight shone. 
Which proved that it was only bone, 



Songs and Satires. 11 



As death is represented. 
Then came a sinking of my heart, 
I plainly saw its lifted dart, 
And vowed from evil to depart, 

If it would spare me longer. 
Hard by a barn stood on the hill, 
And by the creek an ancient mill. 
From one or t'other loud and shrill, 

A cock broke forth in crowing. 
Then off went steed and rider too. 
And like the very wind they flew. 
And soon were far beyond my view, 

To my great satisfaction. 
And since that night I often say, 
" God bless the cock that drove away. 
Those bleached bones and horse so gray, 

And gave to me my senses." 
And now I wish you all to learn. 
That when your brain begins to burn. 
It is not well to homeward turn, 

Alone, before cock-crowing. 
For though grim death may not appear. 
Nor ghosts torment your soul with fear, 
You may imagine things as queer, 

And quite as bad as real. 



HORROR 



He leaned a moment o'er the brink 

And saw the flood sweep wildly by ; 
Then forward sprang, nor stopped to think. 

Until he'd kissed her eye-lids dry. 
Then burst upon his ears a shriek 

Which fill'd his heart with anxious pain: 
He stood aghast, nor could he speak, 

While rang the cry, "Do that again!" 



12 Songs and Satires. 



A DOGEREL SATIRE, 



" I'm an humble old dog, and my master I serve. 

He feeds and he treats me just as I deserve. 

I'm faithful in watching, I warn with a bark, 

And never was known to act mean in the dark — 

Not even to lap from a dish at the fire, 

No matter how much it might be my desire. 

I often am grieved by the follies I see. 

And wonder the while how such things can still be ; 

But dogs are like boys ; they will ape after men. 

Who drink, smoke and chew, and will swear now and then. 

0, puppies, beware ! Lead an honest dog's life ; 

Leave ambitious men all heart- achinars and strife." 



"■b^ 



I once knew a dog, a great, long, yaller hound ; 

A more sneaking rascal could nowhere be found ; 

And he had the brass of a full blooded bull, 

And many an innocent kennel he'd pull ; 

Not speaking of knots which by Hymen were tied, 

Which he slipped between and thus sundered them wide. 

A number of dogs thought him wonderful wise, 

But they were mean too, for they winked with their eyes. 

And placed him in power to rule for their gain. 

Not heeding the honest dogs whom they might pain. 

Alas ! there are many so eager for pelf, 

They'd crush 'neath their feet everybody but self. 

I've said he was hoisted high into a chair. 

And like a dead heathen he sat stinking there. 

So strong was the smell that old Death passing by, 

To finish the business an arrow let fly ; 

And then rose the howl that the mighty was dead, 

And this ragged verse in the papers I read : 

"Dearest Towzer, thou hast left us, 

And thy loss we deeply feel ; 
But 'twas Death who hath bereft us; 

He can make the strongest squeal." 



Songs and Satires. 13 



I sat on my tail and I laughed long and loud, 

And soon to mv side I had drawn a a;reat crowd. 

Among them were dogs who had very good sense, 

And listened to me without taking offense. 

To them I thus spake, with an awful grave face. 
" Those lines, though still good, have been brought to disgrace." 

The dogs came together, and thus they resolved : 
" Since Death our connection with Tow^z' has dissolved, 

To those most bereaved we our sympathy lend ; 

A copy of these resolutions we'll send, 

While we in much pain and great sorrow must bow. 

And take our own chances at living, bow^-wow." 

Much better they'd sent to the sorrowing house. 
The puppies a bone and a meal to the spouse. 
Without even printing a word of the same, 
Or giving an inkling of whither it came ; 
'Tis mockery hollow, 'tis comfort still cold. 
Though it should be printed in letters of gold. 
Great kennels were draped and long eulogies read, 
While some in their bosoms were cursing the dead. 
What nonsense to laud to the uppermost sky 
A bad, brazen dog when he happens to die. 
I may seem severe, but there's reason in this — 
Let truth have the reins and she'll not drive amiss. 

And then came the funeral, of dogs a long train — 

The butcher's, the drover's and watch dogs on chain ; 

And rich idle dogs, with their long, glossy furs, 

With scavenger dogs and those sheep-killing curs ; 

Some long tails had crape on, which hung o'er their rumps, 

And some with less crape flaunting out from their stumps. 

They bore him away mid the awfulest wails. 

You'd thought there were kettles tied tight to their tails. 

They buried him deep — with a sigh — in the ground. 

And left him forgetting the long yaller hound ; 

But many now mourn, but 'tis not that he's gone, 

But that he neglected to pay them their bone. 



14 Songs and Satires. 



Let follies like these be forever thrown by, 
Nor think to resolve when your servant shall die ; 
But, if I've been worthy respect, let it be 
Kept deep in your bosoms, and thus honor me. 
The most that a dog should desire when he's laid 
Away, should be leaving his creditor paid. 

Don't think me a churl that I'm speaking thus plain, 
But weigh for a while what I've said, in your brain ; 
And think, if to you it has never occurred. 
That this is all nonsense, and awful absurd. 
If not, then it proves you're a dog of the clan 
Who cringe when they're trod 'neath the foot of a man. 
Now don't show your teeth, but a moment more hear, 
I've got but a few words to speak in your ear. 
No matter how mean dogs may live, when they die 
There may be a few who should sorrow and sigh. 
But why should the papers proclaim him a saint. 
When all who once knew him will swear that he aint. 

I'll give you — I think you a nice kind of cur — 
Two lines for your tomb which will not be a slur ; 
For tombstones a lie often stand o'er the dead. 
When better it were not a word had been said : 

" He lived and he died taking nothing along, 
But left a good name as an advocate strong." 



NANCY COUNTING STITCHES. 



No, no, sir ! I never will wed ; 

I'm none of your boarding-school scholars. 
What was it just now that you said 

Of heirship to half million dollars? 
Don't ask me, don't press me, I pray, 

Lest people might think for your riches 
I took you. Well, have your own way : 

Please yourself as to time — Fifty Stitches. 



Songs and Satires. 15 



*FADING, CHANGING, DYING. 



Everything beautiful, darling, must fade, 

The rose and the lily, the pride of the field. 
And myrtle, which hides the rude marks of the spade, 

Where lov'd ones are sleeping, will all have to yield 
To Time's busy gleaner, who gathers the leaves. 

And unopened buds in the forest and plain, 
To carefully bind them in bundles and sheaves, 

And carry them off to return not again. 

Everything beautiful, darling, must change ; 

The woodland, the meadow, and course of the stream ; 
Those scenes now familiar, ere long will seem strange. 

And only be thought of as seen in a dream. 
Or pictures of memory long hung away, 

And faded by age, or the dust of the past ; 
Each moment of pleasure refuses to stay, 

The voice of the zephyr is lost in the blast. 

Everything beautiful, darling, must die. 

And that which increases, will surely decrease ; 
The sturdy old oak as a dust-heap will lie. 

The song and its singer will both have to cease ; 
Yet there is a hope that each beautiful thing, — 

Though not in this life — will have being once more ; 
The heart, like the ivy, to loved ones will cling. 

When fallen, and creep to Eternity's shore. 

Everything beautiful, darling, must fade; 

Must change and must die, be it never so grand ; 
And nothing endureth that ever was made. 

For Time has the clay in his own cunning hand ; 



♦Some days ago we published a poem, entitled, " Fadinf , Changing, Dying," written by a 
frequent contributor to our columns, the well known vocalist, Mr. J. Wm. Pope, which was 
copied by the St. Louis Globe- Democrat without credit. Since it has been copied by the 
Philadelphia TYme.? and Cincinnati ComTnercmZ, without being credited either to the author 
or the Chronicle. The omission or the writer's name is a greater oversight than the failure 
to credit the Chronicle. — Pittsburgh Chronicle. 



16 Songs and Satires. 



The spirit immortal he humbleth not, 

He builds though, and crumbles its dwelling of clay 
When everything earthly, and Time, is forgot, 

The spirit will laugh at the thought of decay. 



BRIGHT EYES, LOVE AND WINE. 



Come, fill up your glass with love's nectar so sweet. 
This juice was pressed out by young Cupid's light feet. 
And great Bacchus ordained the contents of this bowl, 
To drown all the sorrows e'er known to the soul. 

So drink while you can. 

Your life's but a span. 

And drown your dull spirits to-night. 

I wonder if Bacchus was ever in love? 

And knew how his nectar and bright eyes would prove ? 

Or has Cupid while tramping the grapes, thrown small darts 

In the wine, to be drank and found lodged in our hearts ? 
I think had he known 
Young Cupid, he'd thrown 
And drown him, deep, deep in the wine. 

This wine is but grape-juice, yet teeming with life. 
And eases the bosom of sorrow and strife ; 
But a bunch of bright eyes, either black, brown or blue — 
With Cupid to press them, yields heavenly dew. 

Which sparkles so bright 

In the worlds darkest night, 

That love finds its way to the soul. 



WHAT IS A KISS? 



What is a kiss? Well, let me see! 

A fire-lock laid by and rusted, 
Some thoughtless body in his glee 

The trigger pulls, and then its busted. 



Songs and Satires. If 



THE ARTIST'S DREAM 



When I was young, I often dreamed of fame, 
And then resolved to make myself a name ; 
I painted, but my pictures brought it not, 
For no one e'er my master pieces bought ; 
At last I thought to steal away alone, 
And dash off scenes to artists yet unknown. 
I found the spot, and, to my great surprise. 
Found eloquence to thus soliloquize — 
" Ye Muses, though misfortune 's in your train, 
With downy wings come fan my sluggish brain ; 
0, lend me now your richest tints and dyes 
That I may here portray the woods and skies 
In all their grandeur, so the world may own 
I am an artist, and do stand alone." 

The sun had halted e're he sought his bed. 

And turned his face, all fire-like and red. 

Toward the east, and tipped each tree, and bush, 

And dainty flower, with a golden flush; 

The fowl began to turn aloft one eye, 

To see the roost to which they soon should fly ; 

The kine were standino; at the barn-vard lowino;, 

The squeeling pigs were toward the slop trough going ; 

All living nature felt the evening's dawn. 

The farmer felt the time was nigh to yawn, 

And I, quite weary, soon began to nod. 

Was watched and cared for by the dreamy god; 

And lo ! upon the hill toward the west, 

I saw a form in bleeched grave-clothes dress'd ; 

His visage, lank, possessed a huge moustache. 

His sunken eyes shot forth a ghastly flash ; 

I smelt the grave, I waited full of dread, 

To see him vanish, for I 'd often read 

That phantoms queer are frequent seen at eve, 



is Songs and Satires. 



But vanish as the day-god takes his leave ; 

And so the spook I saw, as though to tear 

The sun to atoms, darted like a hare 

Toward the distant golden lit horizon : 

A flock of sheep within his pith surprisen, 

He kept right on toward an ancient cave — 

An old coal bank — all open like a grave ; 

He stopped so quick that had he been a horse. 

And I his rider, o'er his head of course 

I 'd had to go, and there with great surprise. 

And dread he stood, his eager flashing eyes 

Beheld a female form, a Magdaline, 

All nude, and shapely as a royal queen. 

Ah ! had he then possessed King David's fire, 

Some other brave had fallen, some other brave Urier; 

But no, his blood, like cucumbers, was cold, 

Great admiration on his mind took hold, 

He turned away and slowly wandered home. 

And soon was lost to view amid the gloom. 

The moon then rose, and with it came new scenes, 

I saw a fire and felt the fumes of beans. 

And panther-like, I crept close to the pot. 

But cannot say if I was seen or not. 

For soon a voice affrighted me from view, 

Still feeling hungry for the tempting stew ; 

These were the words I heard, "Mein Herr, ja, ja;" 

And then a fast approaching form I saw. 

With violin and bow beneath his arm. 

I thought the boiling beans he 'd come to charm, 

Or play a second to the airs they sang. 

But soon his voice in cadence sweetly rang 

Out through the forest, but his theme was sad. 

Thus ran his song — 

" 0, love, dearest love, I am mad. 

In paths of sweet flowers you lead. 
And then in my heart you shoot a hot dart. 
Which makes my poor bosom to bleed ; 



Songs and Satires. 19 



Come, let me bind fast your light wings, 

And let me unstring your dread bow, 
What reason have I to thus mope and sigh, 

When you no compassion will show? 
There 's nothing like love if you 've cash, 

And nothing like love if you 're poor, 
He clings while there 's gold, but grows awful cold 

If none, and flies out through the door." 

" 0, love you 're a villain, and scamp. 

You 've teased me I can 't tell how long. 
But here I will vow to never more bow 

To you, be you ever so strong ; 
A vaunt, little imp of the earth, 

I '11 dance, sing and play when I choose, 
Light-hearted I '11 be, and quickly you '11 see 

I '11 cast to the forest the blues ; 
For love, I have found you a cheat. 

You never will make the pot boil ; 
So here 's for a jig, for you not a fig. 

You bring me but trouble and toil." 

He leaned a picture 'gainst a gnarled tree. 
And by the fire's blaze 't was plain to see 
It was a beauty's form and smiling face. 
Whose every movement would be full of grace ; 
He took his fiddle and the bow in hand. 
And like a dancing master, to command. 
He said, " Now lady with a canvas back, 
We '11 have a jig, I pray you do not lack 
True life and grace ; on you my hopes depend, 
And may the gods to crown this act descend." 
He drew his bow across an old pine tree. 
To get some rosin for his melody. 
And then across the fiddle strings he drew 
The bow, which soon like dancing fairies fiew, 
Until I could not see if bow he had; 
His face grew glum, I saw him growing mad, 
And like a Frenchman, teaching little lasses, 



20 Songs and Satires. 



Before the figure back and forth he passes, 

But all in vain ; she would not leave the stretcher. 

At last he said, "By gum I'm bound to fetch her," 

And at the picture dashed the squeking fiddle 

And sorely rent the canvas in the middle ; 

The fiddle lost its neck, its bridge and strings. 

And then disgusted, down the bow he flings. 

To beans and broth he sat him down to sup. 

And said, "This dancing business I '11 give up." 

Great Nero, fiddled while the city burned, 

And Frederick, while his bieans to ashes turned. 

For all were black, and sad he sat to muse, 

And see the soles were well nigh ofi" his shoes ; 

Just then he shook as though he saw the devil. 

But no, 'twas one who said, "I 'm going for Scalp Level, 

Of all the places for a man to sketch on, 

Or for imagination's gum to stretch on, 

That is the place, and while my scalp remaineth, 

Or single tuft of hair it still retaineth, 

I '11 hie me there, so Fritz come on my boy, 

We '11 slash things there, or something there destroy. 

We '11 dig up rocks, we '11 catch some kind of game. 

And thus perhaps we '11 find the road to fame ; 

I 'm bound to win, I must have lands and houses, 

If I should wear the seat out of my trousers ; 

By George ! I 'm ofi", I hear the sketching fairies, 

They 're out to-night, and full of queer contraries." 

They left, but scarcely were they out of view 
When lo ! I saw approach a score or two 
Of sketching witches, with a tutor bold. 
With countenance depressed, or fixed to scold. 
Each witch was dressed in cutty skirt and flat. 
Some were all weasened up and some were fat ; 
Around the bean pot they began to dance, 
Their feet like moon beams only touched to glance ; 
As in the mazy circle fast they whirled, 
Until they seemed like rising vapor curled 



Songs and Satires. 21 



, To vanish at a passing breath of air ; 
But one there was more dignified and fair, 
She stood aloof and gazed upon the ground, 
Nor heeded all the merriment around. 
She struck an attitude of wildest grief 
As though her span of life was to be brief, 
A fishing worm lay at her tiny feet. 
She picked it up, and then in accents sweet 
Said, "Feed upon my breast and leave your venom there 
Could Cleopat' have acted that more fair? 
I '11 paint the scene ;" just then a loud hoo, hoo, 
Gave such affright that all at once withdrew. 

Then came a man with basket on his arm, 

He 'd been to market, and had bought a charm — 

A pear. He halted there and took it out 

And laid it down ; then walking 'round about 

To view its form, its varied tints and hues, 

Then loud enough he thought to give his views, 

" That pear is perfect and will suit, I know. 

That fruit piece which I started years ago ; 

I ne'er till now have seen so grand a pear. 

When painted, wo'nt it make the artists stare? 

Most artists in their haste to work and win. 

Too often put the color on to thin : 

But I must hasten and must buy a broom — 

The fact is, I 'm too careless of my room — " 

He put his basket on his arm again 

And started off as though to make a train. 

Then came a youth, as young as I, with blues, 

He leaned against a rotten stump to muse ; 

But soon he 'woke from out his train of thought. 

For down went stump and Charlie, on the spot ; 

He then set down against a linden tree 

And said, "Alas! alas! how sad is me, 

I 'd thought to have an air all ears to tickle. 

But find I 'm duped, it 's not worth half a nickle ; 



22 Songs and Satires. 



I '11 leave disgusted, seek some other where, 
For in these regions dwells old dread Despair. 
Let lovers sigh and sing with dulcet lute, 
But go I will, and going blow my flute." 

Then came in view a mathematic sprite. 
With rule and line for drawing all things right ; 
He counted all the trees which stood around, 
The leaves thereon, and grasses on the ground ; 
He measured too how high the branches were. 
How high each tree was standing in the air; 
"All artists should," he said, "the truth define, 
And lay their work out with a rule and line, 
For every piece, no matter large or small. 
If false, disgraces any parlor wall.'' 

Then came a merchant, who had Venice seen, 

With augers, hinges, screws and chisels keen. 

And other hardware articles for sale; 

He laid them down, and thus began to wail: 

" The people here do not the arts adore. 

They 'd rather tread on pictures on the floor — 

In tapestry — or have them done in wax, 

Or on fine cloth, with braid, upon their backs ; 

Then look on Venice views, in calm or squall, 

Well done and framed in parlor, niche or hall, 

The Bridge of Sighs, alas ! what sighs I 've given, 

And wonder'd if there is an artists' heaven. 

More grand than what fair Venice seems to be. 

For such disgusted travelers as me. 

But men must not imagine all have taste. 

Or all have got the golden dust to waste. 

Away then painting, sketching, and all that, 

It has become too worthless, stale and flat ; 

I find more profit from the sale of screws. 

And locks and hammers, than in painting views." 

He gathered up his implements, all rusted, 

And, like the Arab, struck his tent and dusted. 



Songs and Satires. 2S 



Far in the distance, by a stump, there stood 
A sylph-like form, I guess — he was not nude- 



A lump of mud he worked, and changed, and fixed. 
But what it was just then was rather mixed. 
With straws and fingers, gravers sharp and keen, 
He showed his mind had not neglected been ; 
He danced around that lumpish earthy mass 
In wonderous style; at last he made a pass. 
Right at the thing, and shouted in great glee, 
"Ye gods, 'tis well, I 've got him, John McKee." 
He ripped up stump and head and quick withdrew. 
For fear his work would vanish with the dew. 

Then came a cunning, knowing kind of soul, 
He had beneath his arm the hugest kind of roll 
Of canvas, and a box of tubes, and oil. 
He then began the canvas to uncoil. 
He stretched it out and tacked it to some trees. 
Then set a bait to keep oif flies and bees ; 
He then walked off about a yard or tAvo, 
Then tubes promiscuously and fast he threw 
Toward the canvas, and when all were gone, 
He cut it into squares and took it down ; 
"Now there," said he, "are pictures of the best, 
And he who gets one may himself think blest ; 
Why should an artist sit, and think, and worry. 
When scenes like those can be made in a hurry." 

Then came a sight too gorgeous for my tongue. 
It seemed as though the gates apart were swung. 
The gates which shut the past from mortal gaze 
Were op'ed, and Egypt in her palmy days 
Returned once more to show the w^orld how tame, 
Insipid, dull, disgusting, crude and lame 
Is all pretence to grandeur in ihe mind 
Of man ; and there was one who gazing stood 
As proud as Moses by the Red sea's flood ; 
With wand of magic, he the scene brought forth. 



24 Songs and Satires. 



Alas, it proved to him of little worth. 

The connoisseur to his flesh pot turned, 

The would-be critic his grand picture spurned. 

And now it hangs where Egypt's prince might buy 

His subject robes to hide their nudity. 

Dejected, then thy magi stole away 

To catch new pictures by the sun's bright ray. 

He hung his head and whispered with soft breath, 

" The end of all bright scenes like this is death." 

Then Clarence came upon a fiery steed. 

To get prepared for some gigantic deed 

Of valor, vengeance, or at least to make 

Amends for past misfortunes, or to shake 

The spangled arch until the starry van. 

Like hail stones, fell among the feet of man. 

And this great globe, in atmosphere afloat, 

Become as worthless as a bankrupt's note ; 

All, all must to his dire intentions yield, 

"I must and shall," he said, "possess the field." 

To Tubal Cain he hastened in his ire. 

And found him working by a blazing fire; 

By many others he was there surrounded. 

His hammer's strokes throughout the forest sounded. 

"Make me a sword, the greatest in the land," 

Said Clarence, in a voice of stern command, 

"Two edged, and like to razors let them be, 

And long, that I may in my wonted glee 

Reach to the Exposition, where I 've been — 

Ye gods, forgive me, that I 've been so green — 

And tear its roof, foundation into shreds 

And bring it down on those unhallowed heads 

Which had no care except for self and those 

Few ringsters, whom the leading spirits chose." 

The sword was made, he clutched it in his grasp. 

And said, his voice then grating like a rasp, 

" Ha ! ha ! I '11 make that island's bottom smoke, 

I '11 sweep away with one tremendous stroke 



Songs and Satires. 25 



Mine enemies, I '11 have my rights long due, 
I '11 put to blush that flesh procuring Jew. 
But hold, that dog unfinished bays me now, 
That face of Paul's has wrath upon its brow ; 
Avaunt ye canvas ghosts, I '11 win or fall 
Before I touch my easel, paints, or maul." 

He dashed away and at his heels there came, 

With cautious tread and visage all aflame, 

A quiet, weary looking kind of god. 

He fixed his specks and gave a knowing nod, 

He leaned upon a slender kind of wand, 

'T Avas jasper tipped, of it he seemed quite fond ; 

He stood a moment e're he softly spoke. 

Then thus the silent forest he awoke ; 

" Had you the human visage set apart 

As private study, you 'd have known the heart ; 

Long years I 've sat and gazed at people's noses, 

Now that 's the feature which the heart exposes ; 

If it turns up, it speaks of much disdain, 

Though some have said it 's looking for the brain ; 

If sharp, take care that heart lets loose the tongue 

Which clatters like a bell, by milkmen rung ; 

If high, it tells that pride is some place near, 

If bottle shaped, don't mention ale or beer ; 

If very long and high and drooping like a beak, 

Ye gods, my tongue its character cannot speak. 

But go your way, poor Clarence, I propose 

To mind my business and to scan the nose. 

What e'er your calling, do it with a will, 

A coalman may in heaving show some skill, 

Not all are born to sup from golden spoons. 

Though spoonies oft are seen in pantaloons." 

Just then I saw — how long they had been there 
I cannot tell — behind a bush, a pair 
Of eager painters, sketching wondrous things ; 
They looked as proud and happy as two kings. 



26 Son^s and Satires. 



Said John to Jim, "I wonder if I '11 win? 

That 's Murphy's nose, ha ! ha ! that 's Paddy's chin, 

Do n't that look like his coat, ar'n't those his shoes 

And breeches too?" Pat Murphy then arose. 

In ghastly form, before the eyes of Jim, 

And made imagination's head to swim. 

Said Jim, "By Jove, Dave Blythe, will not be dead 

As long as you can master paints and bread." 

I heard a sound and turned my eager eyes. 

From right to left, and then toward the skies, 

And there beheld the grandest sight of all. 

I feared lest some might back to earth-life fall. 

There in a circle, whirling through the clouds, 

All decked in short, but spangled covered shrouds. 

All whom I 'd seen before me pass away — 

The scene was brighter far than brightest day — 

They sang and danced; one danced a fancy clog. 

Another sang the song of 'Kaiser's Dog.' " 

The sport grew wild, my brain grew wilder far, 

I dared not speak lest I the sport should mar; 

I thought, at last, to artists bliss is given. 

And this, 0, this is true artistic heaven. 

Just then came Martin, with his pen in hand. 

And said, " Go join that brilliant happy band, 

And I will write a sketch for all the papers. 

About this jubilee — these dancing capers." 

I 'woke, alas, and found I was alone. 

The mirage gone and Jewish Martin, flown ; 

The article he wrote has ne'er been seen. 

At least by me; ambition, then so keen. 

Is blunted now ; I often sit and muse. 

And wonder what profession I shall choose; 

To paint, I know, is only wasting time. 

Except board fences with large brush and lime. 



Songs and Satires. 27 



A SIMILE, 



Down from the mountain went streaming 

And gleaming 
A brooklet as pure as the heaven dropped dew ; 
Over the rocks it went splashing 

And dashing, 
And off through the meadow till lost to my view : — 
So with a youth in his sporting 

And courting 
Of mirth — he is thoughtlessly having his day ; 
Even while seeking for pleasure 

His measure 
Of boyhood is filling and passing away. — 
Onward it ran, the w^hile leaping 

And sweeping, 
A river it grew as it hurried away, 
Over the precipice pouring 

And roaring 
And filling tlie air with its silvery spray. — 
Thus with the man after glory, 

Though gory. 
With crime ; on he rushes, ne'er caring to know 
The danger that waits, for yearning 

And burning 
Within, sets his pathway in dazzling glow. — 
Down to the sea it went flowing : 

And glowing. 
And then it was lost in the midst of the deep, 
There it shall ever be moaning 

And groaning. 
But down from the mountain shall never more leap- 
So at the end, after ruling 

And schooling 
Ourselves to the passion that reigns in the breast, 
Down we must sink in the rushing 

And crushing 
Of time's mighty tide which is never at rest. 



28 Songs and Satires. 



MISS SNOW'S VISIT TO THE CITY. 



'Twas March the seventh, when Miss Snow 

Came to the city ; 
On me she called. I wish'd to show 

Her, love and pity. 

And thus with solemn face and voice, 

My views I gave her, 
From which I hoped she'd make the choice 

Which pain might save her. 

" You now are pure and know no guile — 
0, priceless blessing — 
While all the dwellers here are vile, 
E'en while caressing." 

" Your virgin form they'll greatly mar. 
And waste your beauty ; 
For all their lips and coat sleeves are 
Most awful sooty. 

" And soon you'll be beneath their feet. 
Polluted, sighing : 
But not a helping hand you'll meet. 
Though you be dying. 

" In floods of tears, then, you will go — 
And none will claim you — 
To hide where none may see your woe, 
But all will blame you. 

" For those who rise there's help from all — 
While they are rising — 
But if by chance they meet a fall. 
All are despising." 

She answered with a chilling stare. 
Which made me shiver : 
" When I'm no longer pure and fair, 
I'll seek the river." 



Songs and Satires. 29 



THE WANDERING SPRITE. 



It was upon a festal day 

In heav'n, and all was joy inside. 
And he who kept the golden way, 

A moment ope'd the portal wide, 
When forth there went a little sprite, 

Which was not miss'd until too late — 
For quick as thinking was its flight — 

And they had shut the pearly gate. 

At even when the sprite returned 

It found the portal closed and sealed ; 
To enter then the spirit burned, 

But only darker night revealed ; 
Off to the stars it took its flight, 

And taught to them its art divine. 
And as the morning poured its light. 

They sang as sweetly as they shine. 

Then to the earth it took its way, 

But there it found no living thing ; 
The winds and waters silent lay. 

Until it gave them voice to sing. 
It taught the trees a solemn lay, 

The voiceless caves and rocks it taught 
To ever strict attention pay. 

And answer back what they had caught. 

Then many beasts and birds were made, 

And lastly man, then came its joy, 
Within fair Eden's flow'ry glade. 

It raised its song of gladness high, 
It taught both man and birds to sing — 

The song which echoes round the throne- 
' All glory to the mighty king 

Who was and is the God alone " 



80 Songs and Satires. 



Then back toward heav'n it quickly flew, 

It felt it had redeem 'd its sphere, 
As nearer to the gate it drew 

Great was its joy these words to hear, 
" Ye cherubim and seraphim, 

Take up the harps which you were giv'n. 
And with your loudest joy est hymn. 

Go welcome music back to heav'n." 



THE FLOWER GIRL. 



In a great city I met a young maiden fair. 

Pink were her cheeks and her eyes were of blue; 
Like unto flax dipped in gold, her ringlets were. 

And her sweet lips wore a cherry -like hue. 
In her fair hand she had bunches of violets. 

Which to the passers by she offered and sang: 
"Bright little violets, blue little violets, 

Culled from the meadow and glistening with dew ; 
Come, buy my violets, sweet little violets, 

Which I have gathered this morning for you." 

Early next morning I went to the meadow land. 

Seeking the maiden who gathered those flowers ; 
Kindly I offered to give her my heart and hand. 

Saying, this meadow ere long shall be ours ; 
Sweetly she answered me, " Gather some violets. 

Help me to sell them, and help me to sing:" 
"Bright little violets, blue little violets, 

Culled from the meadow and glistening with dew ; 
Come, buy my violets, sweet little violets. 

Which I have gathered this morning for you." 

Years have gone by since I gathered those violets, 
Yet in the meadow in beauty they grow ; 

While the young hand which first offered me violets, 
Lifeless is lying those flowers below. 



Songs and Satires. 31 



Still in mine ear, as I pass through the meadow land, 
Comes the sweet strain as I first heard it sang: 
•'Bright little violets, blue little voilets, 

Culled from the meadow and glistening with dew ; 

Come, buy my violets, sweet little violets, 

Which I have gathered this morning for you." 



MAN THE LIFEBOAT!'^ 



"Man the lifeboat!" for a tempest 

Gathers o'er the awful deep ; 
And the thunder loud is rolling, 

While the waves to mountains leap. 
Sharp and fast the lightning flashes, 

Dark and dismal grows the sky ; 
Hark 1 a gun, distress is calling, 

"Help, dear friends, or all must die." 

Chorus. — "Man the lifeboat!" cries the Savior, 
"Why thus stand and idly gaze? 
For the many souls in danger 
Let the lighthouse torches blaze." 

"Who has courage now to venture 

In the storm and reach yon bark ? 
For a gem of countless value. 

Help those struggling in the dark. 
Oh ! the winds are wilder growing. 

Voices calling now I hear ; 
Make the effort, you may conquer. 

Save all hands and bring good cheer." 

" Wretched sinners now are tossing 

On life's broad and troubled sea; 
Satan heaps up rocks for dashing 

Human barks in misery. 
From the gates of hell are blowing 

Blasts which rouse the angry wave, 
Wrecking souls beyond redeeming: 

Help, then, help the weak to save!'* 



32 Songs and Satires. 



ORIGIN OF THE "STARS AND STRIPES. 



Alone in the forest Columbia stood weeping; 

She wept that no flag for her offspring was found — 
A flag with the magical power of keeping 

Her children in Liberty's circle still bound. 
Hot tears, pearly tears, o'er her garment went streaming, 

And washed the deep crimson away in their flow. 
Beneath the soft light of the stars mildly gleaming 

She saw the broad stripes dawning white as the snow. 

All hail, bonny stripes, though begotten in sorrow, 
All hail thou bright promise of hope to the land; 

Though dark be the night, at the dawn of the morrow 
New courage and strength lifts the heart and the hand. 

She turned her glad eyes, though bedimmed, toward heaven 

And thanked the bright stars for the light which they shed ; 
She whispered, "Behold the white stripes that are given 

To mingle and wave with this beautiful red." 
The stars then rejoiced at Columbia's found treasure. 

And thirteen — the brightest — came down with their blue ; 
Around her fond bosom, then heaving with pleasure, 

They clustered, still shining, and never withdrew. 

0, bright stars, shine ever, untarnished, in glory. 
And guide every people to freedom's blest shore; 

Let nations to be yet, with joy hear the story 
Of stars which came down to remain evermore. 

The eagle at morning was heavenward winging. 

And saw the bright stars far beneath him still burn ; 
He heard the loud chorus of patriots singing 

Huzzahs, and he halted, the mystery to learn. 
He came from the clouds, and he perched on her bonnet. 

With wings still outspread, as though shielding his young; 
Columbia's glad children then wove him in sonnet 

With " Red, White and Blue," which so proudly they sung. 



Songs and Satires. 33 



Hurrah for the eagle, the bird of the nation, 
In peace let him sit on our banner in pride; 

All races of people, from high or low station, 
From tyranny's lashes beneath him shall hide. 



MY SON, MY SON. 



My son, my son, how can it be 
That I no more in mortal life 
Shall gaze into your love-lit eyes, 

Or hear your voice's melody ? 

Shall no more see the pleasant smile 

Which played around your truthful lips, 
Nor catch the often smothered sighS, 

Within your heart, so free from guile? 

My name you bore, and while the rest 
Had equal share of fondest love. 
You seemed to creep into my soul. 

And now methinks I loved you best. 

Your mother's heart clung round your form. 
And while she'd spread her arms of care 
About you all, her daily bowl 

Was sweetened by the honey warm 

Which from your lips would fall. 

With every word your tongue would speak ; 
But now, alas, with me she mourns 

That first you heard the Master call. 

Our hearts would break, our souls despair 
At thoughts of you, but for the bands 
You wound about them, and the hope 

That there are pleasures greater where 

Your spirit lingers, waiting still 
Our coming into Paradise, 
Where joy has free unbounded scope, 

And Death hath lost his pow'r to kill. 



34 Songs and Satires. 



0, my son, though faith be mine, 

I anxious wait your coming step 

At close of day — quite weary then — 

To see your face so hopeful shine; 

I will not ask why this must be, 

For you, my boy, already know 
I'm thankful that your work is done, 

That you from earthly cares are free. 

One comfort, Will, I have to-day — 

I'm nearer you than when you drooped, 
Like tender blossom 'neath the frost — 

Three years have well nigh passed away — 

My span is growing short — 'tis well. 

For dread suspense strives hard to sap 

The fount of faith. God grant me strength 

To bear my lot while here I dwell. 



SAINT NICKOLAS. 



In Lapland, Saint Nickolas, in fur to his ears. 
Had harnessed and hitched up his little reindeers ; 
The while he was packing his trinkets and toys — 
For filling the stockings of good girls and boys, 
Not heeding the cold nor the fast falling snow 
So anxious was he on his journey to go — 
He sang to himself and he smiled as he sang. 
And through the tall pine trees his melody rang. 

" To every known land I must hasten away — 
Now Bouncer, be still there, and eat at your hay — 
For children are dreaming each night of St. Nick — 
Ho Thunder, be quiet, how dare you to kick — 
These dolls are for girls who their mothers obey, 
And never get angry with other at play ; 
These horns are for boys who are good when at school 
And learn all their lessons, and follow each rule." 



Son^s and Satires. 35 



" These candies — I fear 1 am doing a wrong 
In taking this wonderful package along — 
Are sweet as the honey produced by the bee, 
0, how little blinkers will glisten to see 
So many sweet things in their stockings at morn ; 
And here are some balls of the nicest pop-corn 
That ever was rolled up in red, white and blue 
Fine paper, dear children intended for you." 

"And here are some drums — ho ! there, Blixen, ho! ho! 
You scamps, does the sound of the drums make you go ? 
Fine soldiers you'd make, now just think w4iat the ears 
Of mothers Avill suifer 'tween now and New- Years — 
And here are some guns with their rammers and shot, 
And arks which are full of — the children know what — 
With cradles and stoves, nice spoons, forks and knives. 
And dishes for tidy young house-keeping wives." 

" And here are some rattles with fancy gum rings. 
With whistles for babies, those pompous young things 
Who rule the whole house ; here are books full of fun, 
Like Jack and the bean, which to giantdom run: 
The cow which jumped over the moon in her glee, 
And Puss in her boots and her fiddle, dee, dee ; 
The babes in the woods, whom the robins so sweet. 
With leaves covered o'er from their heads to their feet." 

He ceased then to sing and he lighted his pipe. 

And rubbed his round nose which was like cherry ripe ; 

Jumped into his sleigh, drew the reins, whistled loud, 

And darted away in a white snowy cloud. 

Now children look out, down the chimney he'll come, 

And if you've been good, of his store he'll leave some ; 

If bad, he has rods, and he's wonderful sly. 

So hoping he'll find you, I'll bid you good-bye. 



Songs and Satires. 



THE WIND AND THE LOOKING-GLASS. 



A huge old glass, which long had hung, 

In stately hall, where young and gay, 
Oft whispered love, and fondly sung, 
■ ..Those touching vows which lovers pay, 
And saw the eye bedimmed with tears. 

The lovely, silent, quivering lip, 
The tender bosom heave with fears. 

The lover love's ambrosia sip ; 
Aye, all that makes the young life bright, 

The world a world of joy serene, 
And fills the heart with heaven's light — 

It saw,, but it removed had been. 
And, silent, leaned against the wall, 
Nor dreamed that pride foreruns a fall. 

The wind by chance came strolling there, 

The glass its back turned to the wind; 
He tried to woo it with an air 

And words of friendship low and kind ; 
Thus ran his song, " 0, lovely glass, 

For many years I've fanned your cheek, 
And whispered to you as I'd pass. 

In hope to hear you fondly speak, 
Or e'en reflect me, as the rest 

Who court, and worship at your shine — 
You oft reflect, but to be blest 

As they have been, was never mine;" 
The glass replied, "But beauty's face, 
Within my bosom finds a place." 

The wind grew wroth, and loudly said, 
"My face you never yet have seen; 

You kiss the face of waiting maids 
As eagerly as beauty's queen; 

You think to soon resume your place 
Upon the newly frescoed wall ; 



Songs and Satires. 37 



A brighter glass than you shall grace 
And meet love's glances in this hall. 

Take that,'" and then he blew a breath 
Which tossed it crushing to the floor ; 

In fragments small to met its death, 

As wind went bounding through the door. 

Through all the house went up the wail, 
"Alas, so bright, and yet so frail." 



PLANT FLOWERS. 



RECITATIVE FOR BASS. 

Plant flowers on the soldier's grave. 

That they may through the season grow; 
Perhaps their roots may silent creep 

To kiss the lips that sleep below. 
Or whisper in the dreaming ear, 

"The battle's ended, victory's won; 
And all that makes the heart to sigh, 

Is that the brave have fought and gone." 
Such tribute to the fallen brave, 

Is nothing, when we weigh their deeds; 
Had they not died, our blooming fields 

Might now be overrun with weeds. 
Their blood has caused the violet, 

And pansy, with sweet herbs, to spring; 
Plant flowers, then, with thankful hearts: 

Let minstrels tune their harps and sing. 

AIR — TENOR. 

Up with the dawning, ye lovers of glory, 

Think of the Heroes, who manfully fell. 
Greater than those whom ye read of in story : 

Long may their graves of our victories tell. 
Though the heart's fount may have ceased its sad flowing. 

Though the bright tear drop no longer may fall ; 
Still the sweet flowers each year ye find growing, 

Bring, and with cheerfulness, plant over all 



38 Songs and Satires. 



FULL CHOEUS. 

Through the woods, through the woods, seek for the flowers, 

Beautiful flowers to plant o'er the dead : 
Over hills, down the dells, into the bowers. 

Under the rocks where the wounded have bled. 

J^irst voice — You bring anemones. 

Second voice — You the fair lily. 

Third voice — You gather cowslips. 

Fourth voice — And you the bright bells. 

QUARTETTE. 

All the sweet flowers that bloom in the valley, 

Bring, with their perfumes still shut in their cells. 

FULL CHORUS. 

Through the woods, through the woods, seek for the flowers, 

Beautiful flowers, to plant over all ; 
Over hills, down the dells, into the bowers, 

Under the rocks where the wounded have bled. 



MORNING AT EMSWORTH 



The Sun had raised his broad, bright brow 

Above the hill ; each bush and tree, 
With gilded crown, ne'er ceased to bow 
Obeisance to his Majesty : 

The air was balm, the breath of morn 

Blew soft and cool ; the glistening dew — 
As gems the royal couch adorn — 

Hung sparkling on each blade that grew. 

I gazed a moment on the scene ; 

My knees gave way before the sight. 
And bent in prayer, for calm had been 
The still, dark hours of the night, 

A voice the silence broke at length, 
A dove its solemn pleading made ; 
Its voice revived and gave me strength, 
When I my morning thanks had paid, 



Songs and Satires. 39 



Then nature's organ soft and low — 

The wind among the forest throng 
And shrubbery — began to blow 
The key-note for a sacred song. 

The robin caught it first, and sang 

A solo ; then the redbird's note — 

Like chanting monk's — peculiar rang, 

And seemed along the sky to float. 

Then orioles, with golden breast, 

And countless birds, caught up the theme, 
Till nature, in bright verdure dress 'd, 
With sparks of music was agleam, 
Humanity, how tame, how cold. 

Are all the songs you strive to sing ; 
Their spirit lags with dust of gold. 
Earth heavy hangs upon each wing. 



THE REAPER AND GLEANERS, 



Grim Death, on his pale horse had halted one day, 
Where children, all vigor and life, were at play ; 
He gazed at a lassie with soft silken hair. 
And said, " It seems hard to destrov one so fair ; 
But such is my misson, nor can I e'er choose 
My victims, nor dare I to strike them refuse; 
From grandest of halls to this woodland I've come, 
To pluck this sweet rosebud just ready to bloom." 

She sat 'neath a tree where the birds sweetly sang ; 
Around her the bluest of violets sprang ; 
And with her there sat of young children a score, 
Whose faces expressions of happiness wore ; 
Her voice was as sweet as the birds' in the tree, 
Her lips and her eyes spoke of innocent glee, 
Her fingers were twining wild flowers with green 
To chaplets — 'twas May, and she chosen as queen. 



40 Songs and Satires, 



Old Death scanned the tree, from its base to its hight, 
And then at his dial he cast his quick sight ; 
He turned him away with a tear in his eye. 
And drew a long breath, which returned in a sigh ; 
He said, " 0, how wonderful everything seems. 
Destruction hangs waiting where nobody dreams ; 
There hangs a huge limb which has died but to slay 
That beautiful child in the midst of her play." 

Like bees after honey, the children went out 
To gather more flowers, to romp and to shout ; 
The lassie then sat 'neath the dead branch alone ; 
^' The time has arrived, and my work must be done," 
Said Death, and he struck with a quick lightning flash. 
The limb, and it fell with a thundering crash ; 
It crushed the young lass in its horrible fall. 
And spattered her gore on leaves, flowers and all. 

Then Death, in great haste, spurred his time bleached steed, 

And lead the swift wind storm, so great was his speed ; 

While flash after flash, and loud peal after peal. 

With wind, made that forest old giant to reel ; 

Though dark was the sky and terrific the storm. 

There stood by the corpse a most beautiful form ; 

He caught in his arms its young spirit, and said, 

" Sweet child, you shall live, though thy mortal be dead." 

Old Death is the reaper who carefully reaps. 

Of weeds and of grain stalks no reckoning he keeps. 

But cuts them all down whether ripe or in bloom ; 

The angels are gleaners who gather them home. 



WHY DRESS IN MOURNING? 



Why dress in mourning for the dead ? 

Hath God no right to take his own ? 
'Twere better ere the soul hath fled, 

In ashes for its weal to moan. 



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